


Believer

by mischiefmanager



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, First Dates, First Meetings, Humor, M/M, Rated T for Trashmouth, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, and also Richie keeps talking about his dick, takes place in 2004
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-20 13:26:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16138178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mischiefmanager/pseuds/mischiefmanager
Summary: And wow. Wow and ahalf.Richie couldn’t have evendreamedup a guy this cute, although admittedly he’d been picturing some dude in baggy jeans and a beanie with a hacky sack this whole time. Which couldn’t be further from this...absolutesnackof startled, prep-school perfection.





	Believer

_Oh my fucking god, I hate that song._

Y’know, Richie has seen worse. Some girl in his English class has _damn, how you fit all that in them jeans?_ so really, anything after that is an improvement.

And it’s not like the soul mark is constantly on his mind or anything. It’s on his back—literally, he can’t see it without two mirrors and he had to have Bill read it out to him when it first showed up—but every once in awhile he remembers that someday he’s going to hear _oh my fucking god, I hate that song_ and he’ll just _know._ Well, maybe more than every once in awhile. It’s kind of like a recurring daydream. That, and what he’d do if he suddenly became Cyclops from the X-Men.

Fifteen year old Richie was positive it was going to be like some punk-ass rocker chick standing outside Hot Topic and reacting to 98 Degrees over the loudspeaker. At least, that was his first thought. And it’s not like it’s going to be a _problem_ if that’s what ends up happening—because no matter what or who else he’s into, Richie is positive he’ll always have a deep-down internal hard-on for punk-ass rocker chicks—but lately he’s had this nagging feeling in the back of his mind that… Well, it could just be like, a memory of a dream or some shit. And Richie certainly does not believe in _dreams coming true,_ but it wasn’t until well after he got a soul mark that he admitted to himself that his _secret thing_ for Chad Michael Murray is not going anywhere anytime soon.

Richie thinks it would’ve been easier to admit to being The Bi-est if it hadn’t been goddamn _Chad_ that forced him to realize it. Like if it had been Orlando Bloom in _Pirates_ or something when he’d been like _alright, time to fuckin’ fess up_ . But he explained away his crush on Orlando as like, well, Orlando is cool as fuck. Duh. Who _doesn’t_ want to blow him?

Same with like, David Boreanaz. Richie is convinced that even the straightest of straight guys fell desperately in love with Angel when they watched _Buffy._ He could stick his stake in anyone and they’d thank him.

But Chad...mm. Richie is the only guy he knows who watches _One_ _Tree_ _Hill_. He’s sure about that because every joke he’s ever made about Lucas Scott has been met by blank stares by Bill and Bev and even _Ben,_ who, though ostensibly straight, would totally love _One Tree Hill_ if Richie ever got the balls to ask him to watch it with him. The only people in the whole world he has to discuss it with are the group of girls who sit next to him in Physics. So actually, Richie blames One Tree Hill for his D in Physics. If he hadn’t started talking to those girls—and he probably wouldn’t have if they hadn’t been discussing the show—he might’ve been able to learn about science instead of playing Fuck Marry Kill every period. So even though it truly is the worst show he has ever watched _on purpose_ , once a week, like clockwork, Richie sits his ass down in front of the computer to jerk it to Blondie McKenDoll because...what are you gonna do.

It ended up being a blessing in disguise because he decided to let his friends know he’s bi _and_ a _One Tree Hill_ fan in one fell swoop. He only got shit on about the _One Tree Hill_ thing, especially because he was the one who used to give Ben shit about _Dawson’s Creek._ So really, that was only fair.

Still, that was _nothing_ compared to the shit he got for having a soul mark that’s like...inches from being a tramp stamp. Secretly (and also not-so-secretly), Richie _loves_ it. It’s deliciously tacky, the handwriting is almost as bad as his; really, he couldn’t have asked for something trashier. He might’ve _died_ of shame if he’d gotten delicate, loopy cursive around his forearm like Bill _it’s lovely to meet you, finally_ Denbrough. Anyway, anybody who writes that nicely would never be compatible with Richie. And god help whatever poor guy has a soul mark in _Richie’s_ handwriting somewhere on his body. Richie can only pray it’s somewhere unobtrusive.

The messy printing is only a small part of what has convinced Richie his soulmate is a boy. It’s mostly just a gut feeling, something he doesn’t want to acknowledge because he can’t explain it. It feels stupid to bank on something like that.

Richie is low-key disappointed by the fact that he's never seen the handwriting from his soul mark crop up in any of the school graffiti. He's even gone and tagged the bathroom stalls a couple of times, in the hopes that whatever guy it is will see it. And deep down, Richie knows he probably wouldn't have done that if he'd thought his soulmate was a girl.

They're all reasonably convinced that Bill's soulmate is British, based on the whole _lovely_ thing, and Richie has taken to mimicking the kind of accent he thinks she might have. Bill keeps being like _I'm not gonna match with the qu-qu-queen, Richie,_ but if she's the kind of girl who goes around telling people it's _lovely to meet you..._ Richie's not saying she _will_ be like some kind of aristocratic socialite, just that she _might_ be. He thinks Bill should probably be taking steps to prepare for that sort of scenario, although he's not sure what those steps might be. Cotillion? Cigar smoking? Tea making?

Either way, Bill has time. There aren’t any British girls in Derry. No way is he going to meet her until at least college.

In any case, thinking about what song he and his soulmate can hate together to be a lot better pastime than whatever the fuck Mr. Shulman is writing about on the whiteboard. Richie feels like he can't take a hundred percent of the blame for failing to pay attention. The green marker Mr. Shulman is using is frayed, fading, and praying for the sweet release of the trash can, and it's not like Richie can really see the board from the back of the room on the best of days. His parents have suggested, well, more like _insisted_ he sit up front but like...Bev sits in the back, and sitting up front would put a damper on the bubble gum blowing contests they have when Mr. Shulman isn't looking. Tragically, his parents probably wouldn't agree with his reasoning. But whatever.

Richie has a list in the back of his notebook, which he relies on his inscrutable handwriting to protect from prying eyes, of every song he's ever heard that he immediately disliked. He started it on his fifteenth birthday with a list of past horrors and adds on every time Creed releases a new single.

 

  1. _Titanic song—My Heart Will Go On_
  2. _I Hope You Dance_
  3. _Hero—Enrique Iglesias_ (although Richie has admittedly crossed out and rewritten this one several times because, you know, Enrique)
  4. _Soak Up the Sun—that chick that’s dating Lance Armstrong_
  5. _Summer Girls_
  6. _I Knew I Loved You_
  7. _Your Body Is a Wonderland_
  8. _I’m Like a Bird_
  9. _Anything that has ever been on American Idol_



 

And so on. He's got 37 entries so far, and it's been two and a half years in the making. He's just in the process of deciding whether _A Thousand Miles_ deserves a spot on the list when Bev nudges his shoulder and hands him a note under the desk, written in Ben's even, exacting printing.

 

_Tuesday: Circle one_

_\- National Treasure_

_\- Mean Girls_

_\- The Passion? (probably not, I know)_

_\- Saw_

_\- Troy_

 

Richie truly sees no point in reading further because Bev has only circled _National Treasure_ and _Mean Girls_ and there is a zero percent chance Ben won't side with her _,_ but he'll be damned if he's not going to give his opinion anyway. He scribbles a big fat line through _The Passion,_ because although he knows Ben's AP history class will give him extra credit for seeing it, but he's not sure he loves Ben (or rather, Ben's history teacher) enough to sit through three hours of Jim Caviezel getting whumped.

Apropos of nothing, a song begins playing in Richie’s head; a good one, thankfully. Richie has very little control over his internal radio and sometimes it gets stuck on Radio Disney, so some Weird Al is a welcome reprieve.

 

 _And the guide..._ Richie mutters while tapping on his desk.

 

_Said not to stand_

_But that’s a demand_

_That I couldn’t meet_

_I got on my feet_

_And stood up instead_

_And knocked of my head, you see_

_Tell meeee…_

 

From Richie’s other side, Bill’s elbow collides with his ribs.

“You’re doing the th-thing again,” he mutters under his breath. Richie rolls his eyes. He doesn’t understand why _anyone—_ his math teacher included—would not be delighted by a surprise rendition of a Weird Al song, regardless of where in the song he happens to start singing. 

Back to the movie list. Everything else...hmm. _Troy_ looks badass—and stars Richie's one true love, Orlando Bloom. There's a good chance he's gonna be naked in it too. Richie draws a dick next to _Troy_ as part of the decision-making process. He knows Ben only put _Saw_ on the list because he thought Richie would like it. There's no way Ben actually wants to watch Wesley from _Princess Bride_ get chopped up. Richie scratches _Saw_ out and writes _you're not fooling me_ next to it.

He's heard good things about _Mean Girls,_ but still... Bev probably only circled it because she knows it's Ben's first choice. Sometimes being best friends with a couple makes Richie want to spray them with projectile vomit. But, you know, in the best way. He has no particular objections to _Mean Girls_ himself, except that _National_ _Treasure_ promises to be amazingly, spectacularly adventure-y and ridiculous, and Richie is always down for that kind of action. In fact, he would just as soon use the advantage of a half day where his parents are at work to watch _Jumanji_ on the big TV in the living room, but...

Fuck it. He's feeling generous today, and he kind of wants to witness Ben vibrating with excitement when he sees the note so...he circles _Mean Girls_ and passes it back.

Ben's gasp upon receiving it is worth it.

 

* * *

 

Apparently, Derry High isn't the only school having a minimum day because the mall is fucking _packed_ with teenagers. The concession stand line is super long, but where else is Richie supposed to find a nauseating selection of overpriced candy and a bucket of popcorn that could feed a small village? After dousing the popcorn with butter to the point where Ben almost gags, they make their way into the theater to find seats. Which are shitty almost-front-row ones because it took them so goddamn long to get snacks that those are the only four seats together by the time they get in there. Lucky the guy sitting in front of Richie is super short. Bev and Ben aren't so lucky—the curls of the guy to his left are _almost_ as impressive as Richie's, and the guy in front of Bev is just obviously really tall.

The previews haven't even started yet—it's just the shitty like _don't talk in the theater_ ads and dumb TV trivia questions.

Richie feels incumbent to entertain his friends at all times, but especially in moments like this, where nothing else entertaining is forthcoming.

 _Uh huh,_ he whispers, starting up a beat on his thigh. _Uh huh. Extra Cheese._

Bill sighs in a long-suffering sort of way beside him.

 

_Uh huh. Uh huh. Save a piece for meeeee…_

 

He turns to Bev and starts whispering the rest of the lyrics directly into her ear because he can’t not.

 

_Pizza party at your house_

_I went just to check it out_

_Nineteen extra-larges, what a shame_

_No one came_

_We sat eatin’ all alone_

_You said, take the pizza—_

 

“Shh!” Bev puts a finger over his mouth. “You’re going to get us kicked out again.” 

That’s fair. Although, in Richie’s defense, it’s not like they missed out on much last time. _The Village_ was supposed to be shitty anyway.

 _Mean Girls_ is, as it turns out, almost as interesting as the antics of the people in the row in front of them. Curly and the tall one are  a couple, clearly, and Richie feels for Shorty The Third Wheel, whose face he has yet to get a good look at. His hair is as neat as Richie’s is messy though—the kind of perfect where Richie can’t tell if he tried to make it look like that or if that’s just how it is. It’s just long enough to sweep over the tips of his ears and to almost touch the back collar of the polo shirt he’s wearing. He sits with his legs crossed in front of him, which Richie hasn’t been able to do since eighth grade.

The couple is _cute,_ like stupid cute. The tall one is black and like, _easily_ a ten no matter what your taste is; Curly is white with defined cheekbones and a cardigan. Tall has his arm around Curly, who has leaned into his neck. It makes Richie at least ten times gayer than he was before he walked into this theater.

Halfway through the movie, Richie has finished his monster popcorn and started in on the Milk Duds. He’s getting intense gay vibes from Aaron, who is supposed to be hot but is a little too Mister Muscles for Richie’s taste. Of course, Richie also likes Chad Michael Murray so… Even Richie’s taste doesn’t match with Richie’s taste. Whatever. At least his mouth and brain are in agreement on the subject of Sour Patch Kids, which is what really matters in the end.

But anyway, Richie prepares to come away from this movie a changed man with a new appreciation for _Jingle Bell Rock_ by the time the credits roll. He’s definitely going to have to see this at least four to sixteen more times—or however many he can get away with before his friends threaten to kill him—because he missed a lot of the jokes being distracted by the way Shorty was craning his neck to look up at the screen. Richie pops the last of his Starburst into his mouth without unwrapping it. If there was an Olympics category for unwrapping a starburst with your tongue, Richie would be a gold medalist.

“Did you _finish_ all that?” Ben gasps, leaning over and gaping at the graveyard of candy wrappers across Richie’s lap. Richie nods, burps, and rubs his belly like a proud expectant mother. He spits out the Starburst wrapper and hands it to Ben with a wink because he knows Ben’s too polite to drop that shit on the floor for the ushers to clean up.

“Well,” says Beverly, taking a final, bubbly sip of her Icee, “when you give birth to that thing later tonight, don’t call me to cry about it.”

And because she gave him such a perfect opportunity—and because he _absolutely_ will be calling her from the bathroom later tonight—Richie decides to finally finish his song.

 

_Why’d you have to go and make me so constipated?_

_This really is a—_

 

He doesn’t get any further because a sharp voice cuts in from directly in front of him.

“Oh my _fucking_ god, I _hate_ that song.”

And then Richie’s back is attacked by a thousand mosquitos at once—or at least that’s what it feels like. He overheard a guy on the quad once say that the sensation from his mark when he met his soulmate gave him a boner, but _apparently_ it’s different for everyone because all this does is make Richie want to light himself on fire. 

Which is why when Shorty in the J. Crew polo wheels around to look at him, Richie is awkwardly shifting, trying to find a way to itch his back on the seat. Maybe not the first impression he was going for, but just then, Shorty’s eyes lock on to Richie’s as he locates the source of the song, so yeah. There it is.

And wow. Wow and a _half._ Richie couldn’t have even _dreamed_ up a guy this cute, although admittedly he’d been picturing some dude in baggy jeans and a beanie with a hacky sack this whole time. Which couldn’t be further from this...absolute _snack_ of startled, prep-school perfection.

Before either of them can say anything else, Shorty yelps and grabs at one of his legs. That’s when he seems to regain the power of speech.

“It’s _you?”_ he says, glaring sharply at Richie. _“You’re_ the reason I haven’t been able to wear shorts for three fucking years?”

People are starting to leave the theater, which Richie hardly registers because he is having a full-on, swear to god Disney moment. This guy is like a...a bear cub. Not like _hairy—_ he’s actually noticeably _not_ hairy—but in the sense that he’s small and huggable-looking and Richie wants to pick him up and squeeze him but would probably get mauled if he tried to do so.

“Do you even—oh, sorry,” Shorty says, apologizing to the person who is trying to scoot past him. Then he turns back to Richie and flicks his eyes over him; just like a quick once-over. It’s impossible to tell if he likes what he sees. Richie notices he is still rubbing his calf.

“Itches like a motherfucker, doesn’t it?” he says, giving up on his seat-wiggling and reaching behind himself to scratch at his soul mark. Unfortunately, it turns out to be one of those itches that _hurts_ when you scratch it, so he pulls his fingers back with an, “ow, son of a bitch!”

Shorty hisses.

“What’s wrong, Eddie?” Tall leans over Curly to ask Shorty—Eddie. _Eddie._

“Fuck,” says Eddie, then he takes in a deep breath, rubbing his leg like he’s _dying_ to scratch it. “This asshole—” he points an accusing finger in Richie’s direction, “—is the reason I’ve had those Weird Al lyrics about being—sorry, excuse us—about being _constipated_ on my leg since before the goddamn song even came out.”

Tall and Curly both swivel around to stare at Richie. That gets Bev’s attention.

“Wait, Richie,” she says, grabbing his arm. “Is this—” 

“The love of my life,” Richie announces proudly, leaning forward to put his elbows on his knees, chin in his hands. _“Eddie.”_  

There is silence for a second during which Richie can almost see smoke coming out of Eddie’s ears.

“Fuck,” he says again. For all his preppy khakis and neatly combed hair and pristine white sneakers, he sure has a potty mouth. Richie couldn’t imagine anything better.

Bev gapes too, tapping Ben rapidly on the knee to get his attention. Curly’s eyes narrow as he examines Richie critically.

“Eddie, are you sure this is him?” he asks, still staring.

“Yeah,” Eddie nods, pulling up his pant leg and peering at his leg. “Yeah, cause—you know what? You can’t really see it in—”

“Excuse me,” calls an usher from the end of the aisle. “Is there a problem?”

“No,” Richie calls back cheerfully. “This is my soulmate! Isn’t he—”

“Right,” says the usher, blank faced in spite of this being the greatest of all possible happenings. “You think maybe you can move this party out to the lobby? I need to get the floor cleaned before the next showing.”

Eddie practically disappears into his friends during the awkward group shuffle out of the theater, but Richie walks backwards, keeping his eyes on all five feet and...four inches? three? of the gorgeousness that is Eddie.

Out in the light of the lobby he’s _even better._ Soft-looking brown hair, lightly freckled cheeks and arms, and—once he pulls up his pant leg—a soul mark that looks like the logo for someone’s z-list death metal band. The skin around it is pink and blotchy, but Richie can see the lines already fading. The only word that’s really fully legible is _constipated._ Which is hilarious, so Richie can’t understand why Eddie seems so ticked off.

Not that it fazes him in the slightest. It is actually written in the stars or the Book of Fate or whatever that he and Eddie are _meant for each other._ They’re _destined_ to fall in love. If Eddie is mad at him now, he won’t be later.

“Whoa,” says Curly, tracing his fingers over Eddie’s soul mark. “Yeah. There it goes.”

“I’m Mike,” says Tall, who, now that they’re all standing, is actually the same height as Richie. He extends a hand, which Richie takes and then uses to yank him in for a hug. He smells _amazing._

“Richie,” he says into Mike’s shoulder, before next trying to plaster himself to Curly. He hears Ben start to make introductions with Mike before Eddie’s voice cuts in.

“Stop,” he orders, running both hands through his hair, which bounces immediately back into its immaculate style. “Okay? Just—this is _not_ happening right now.”

“Tell that to my heart, cutie,” says Richie. “And by my heart I mean my—”

“My _mom?”_ Eddie says, like he’s name-dropping—like that should mean anything to Richie.

“God, if she’s half as cute as you, then hell yes.”

“No,” says Eddie. “I mean like, my mom. Does not know. That I’m gay. Fuck. Like, she has _no_ fucking idea. And she’s gonna have a shit fit when she finds out. I keep telling her I don’t even have a soul mark yet—she never would’ve let me out of the house again if she’d seen it.”

“So?” says Richie. “Now it’s going away; now she doesn’t have to see it.” Seems more like a solution than a problem if you ask him.

“Honestly I was hoping not to even have to deal with _any_ of this shit until like after college,” Eddie says. He looks like he’s considering just making a fucking break for the door. Like, _don’t want to deal with this now, bye!_ Which, fair.

It’s a lot to roll with, especially just out of fucking nowhere like that. Richie probably should be freaking out way more than he is right now.

The idea of not seeing Eddie again until after college sounds _terrible,_ but he doesn’t want to admit that. Going around like, _yeah, I met my soulmate but he had a meltdown and ran away so…_ Like, he could do it if it’s what Eddie wanted. But he really hopes Eddie changes his mind.

“Do you want me to just like...fuck off?” he asks Eddie, quietly enough that the others won’t hear him.

Eddie frowns. “I don’t—”

“I mean...I guess we don’t have to like, you know, _go for it_ now. Like. If you’re not into it, it’s cool. No offense taken. Maybe I’ll… I dunno, find you on Friendster in a few years? When things are easier? Or you can look for me. It’s Richie T-O-Z-”

Eddie cringes, checks his phone. “Shit, I have to go. My mom left me three messages; she’s probably already in the parking lot.”

And before Richie can even get upset about the idea that his soulmate is about to walk off into the sunset without so much as a dramatic monologue about how he’ll never give up on their eventual theoretical love, Eddie bites his lip and looks up into Richie’s face. His eyes are big and brown and make Richie feel like his ribcage is liquefying.

“Gimme your phone,” he says. Richie’s heart leaps into his throat as he pulls it out of his pocket.

Eddie takes it from him. “You should really get a case for this thing,” he says, clicking away on the number pad.

Their fingers brush as Eddie hands back his phone, with one last long look back as he scampers away.

Richie starts typing before he’s even left the lobby.

 

**From: Richie**

_hi its richie, the actual love of ur life_

 

**From: Eddie**

_jesus i havent even reached the parking lot_

_dont text me too much its 15c a text, my mom will catch on_

 

**From: Richie**

_can i see u again_

_i miss u already_

 

**From: Eddie**

_i can probably get out again saturday_

 

**From: Richie**

_saturday? what about tmrw?_

 

**From: Eddie**

_im lucky if i get saturday_

_saturday, yes or no_

 

**From: Richie**

_YES OF COURSE_

_meet me in front of the arcade 1st and Adams_

…

_ok?_

 

**From: Eddie**

_Yeah 2pm stop texting me_

 

* * *

 

Eddie—god even thinking his _name_ brings up a rush of butterflies—is standing outside the arcade looking about as comfortable as if it were a strip club. He’s wearing shorts, apparently for the first time in years. Something tells Richie that Eddie’s not going to be one of those people who gets their soul mark tattooed on after meeting their soulmate. The jury is still out on Richie—he kinda misses his already.

In the five days since they met, Richie has outlined itineraries for at least three different honeymoons and started a shortlist of names their adoptive children. He hopes Eddie also dreams of naming his sons after the kids from _South Park._

“So,” says Richie, leaning down and looking Eddie in the eye, “yes or no to kissing on the first date?”

“Who said this was a date?” Eddie scoffs, opening the door to the arcade and rolling his eyes.

Richie has as much of a plan as he’s ever made in his life for this afternoon. First it’s the arcade where he can show off his _bitchin’_ Dance Dance Revolution skills, then to Johnny Rockets next door for a burger to remember, then _hopefully_ back to Richie’s car to make out if they _really_ hit it off.

Richie honestly cannot wait to show Eddie his car. It’s super impressive, even though it’s missing a bumper and the back passenger side door is held on with duct tape. Is a handjob too much to hope for on the first date? He doesn’t want to pressure Eddie or anything, but Richie is ready to give Eddie a handjob _yesterday._ So as soon as Eddie’s ready to rumble, they can get _down._

Richie brought both his windshield covers just in case—the blue one _and_ the _Ren and Stimpy._

Turns out there’s a long line for DDR, which Richie probably should have counted on since it’s Saturday. Perfect opportunity for getting to know each other though. If Eddie would just like, you know, talk. He’s silently chewing on his lip instead, brow furrowed.

“Come here often?” Richie asks him.

Eddie shakes his head. “More like never. My mom won’t let me. Says the arcade is full of germs. She thinks I’m at Stan’s house watching _High Society_ again _._ ”

“What’s _High Society?”_

“Really?” Eddie looks up at him. “You haven’t seen—like, with Grace Kelly, Frank Sinatra? Bing Crosby? No?”

“So it’s like...a super old movie?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says slowly. “What—I’m just curious—what’s your favorite movie?”

“Definitely _The Big Lebowski,”_ says Richie right away. “That’s easy. Best movie of all time. Oh, except maybe _White Chicks. Pulp Fiction. Scary Movie 3.”_

“Oh my god,” Eddie whispers, apparently to his shoes.

“Please don’t tell me you preferred _Scary Movie 2._ That might be a dealbreaker. Soulmate or not.”

“But you do like scary movies?” Eddie perks up a little. “Have you seen _Wait Until Dark_ with Audrey Hepburn? It’s super scary.”

“Audrey Hepburn? Ohhhh, that chick in _The Philadelphia Story?_ My grandma makes us watch that every year when we come over for Thanksgiving.”

Eddie purses his lips. “That’s Katharine Hepburn.”

“Are they sisters?” Richie asks.

“No.”

Richie isn’t worried. Eddie probably just hasn’t seen, like, _Dude Where’s My Car_ yet. Easily fixed. His parents will be out of town next weekend; Eddie can stay over and they can watch it. That and definitely _Catch Me If You Can._

He pitches the idea to Eddie, whose eyes light up at the mention of _Catch Me If You Can._

“Oh my god,” Eddie groans, “Leonardo DiCaprio was like, my sexual awakening.”

“For sure,” says Richie. “He was such a badass in _Gangs of New York._ Which one did it for you? Was it _The Man In the Iron Mask?”_

Eddie looks at him like he’s being an idiot. “Uh, you’re guessing _The Man In the Iron Mask_ before _Titanic?”_

“Really?” Richie winces, super disappointed and unable to hide it. _“Titanic,_ Eddie?”

Eddie smirks. “No. _Romeo and Juliet._ You’re up.”

Richie tries to decide whether _Romeo and Juliet_ is a better or worse sexual awakening than _Titanic_ as he chooses a song. Richie practices DDR every weekend the way some people faithfully go to church, so he’s pretty confident he’ll blow Eddie away no matter what.

Still, just to be safe, he picks easy mode when he thinks Eddie isn’t looking. Eddie’s never been here. He doesn’t need to know that it took Richie six months of practice before he finished a song without failing out. It’s gonna look cool either way.

And, okay, in hindsight...these brand-new Dickies are still kind of stiff. They might not have been the best choice for DDR. He just figured they’d make a better impression than the old ripped ones he was wearing when they met. Eddie strikes Richie as the kind of guy who doesn’t wear the same pants two days in a row; he doesn’t need to know that Richie (up until the day before yesterday) only had the one pair. Richie has decided he might even be convinced to break his strict rule of not throwing out pants until they’ve worn through in the crotch. All for love.

Eddie smiles brightly at his abysmal score. “Wow, that was pretty good. Can I try?”

Damn, that smile. Whipped already and they haven’t even kissed yet. Richie steps down with a bow.

Eddie stands tentatively on the DDR platform.

“Um…” He looks at the screen. “This one?”

And before Richie can stop him, he’s picked a crazy song on hard mode. If it were Bill, Richie would settle in and prepare laugh his ass off. Maybe even try to grab his camera from the car.

“So you just like, step on the arrows when they show up on the screen?” Eddie asks while the game loads.

“Uh, yeah,” says Richie. “But you know—don’t worry if you fail out. Took me awhile to get the hang of it.” He winks. 

“Okay,” says Eddie. He rolls his neck and shakes out his arms and… Whoa, why does Richie suddenly feel like he’s about to pop a boner?

And then, uh. And then Eddie is nothing but a flurry of legs, jumping, twirling, hopping back and forth. He claps and snaps with the beat—god, he knows how to _use_ his fucking body. Thank god for Richie’s stiff new pants. He bends a little at the knee, letting his sweater drape down over his lap. Other people in the arcade are stopping what they’re doing to watch—he’s _that_ good.

After what could have been either ten seconds or ten years—but nothing in between—the song ends and Eddie bounces lightly off the mat. Richie’s throat goes dry.

“How’d I do?” Eddie’s little smirk is positively _edible._  

“Marry me,” Richie croaks. “I _was_ gonna offer to teach you to play but, uh…”

Eddie laughs. “Mike has that game,” he says, still smiling. “We play it all the time at his house. It’s even harder with the shitty fold-out mat.”

“Well there go my plans,” Richie says, throwing his arms in the air. “It was gonna be a DDR lesson. A sexy one. And you’ve gone and totally _schooled_ me, so now I’m just gonna have to try to impress you with _Halo.”_

Mercifully, Eddie turns out to be absolute shit at first-person shooters, so Richie isn’t _totally_ humiliated on his home turf. But Eddie creams him at the driving games almost as bad as he did at DDR. 

“Jesus, dude,” Richie says, watching Eddie punch his initials into the hi score list. EFK. “What kind of car do you drive?”

“Pffft,” Eddie shakes his head. “My mom won’t even let my get my permit yet.” 

“Wait,” says Richie. “How old are you?”

“I’m eighteen,” Eddie tells him. _Shut the fuck up. No way._

“You’re _older_ than me?! But you’re so short! I thought you were like sixteen.”

Eddie shoots him a baffled glare. “You know that’s not how it works, right?”

“Well, how old did _you_ think _I_ was?” Richie asks. 

“I guess I thought you were eighteen too?” says Eddie, shrugging. “I mean…” he gestures vaguely upward.

Richie raises his eyebrows.

“Alright, touche,” Eddie admits. “But seriously, how old _are_ you? I’m gonna feel really weird if you’re just like, the world’s tallest freshman and you’re hitting on me.”

“Seventeen. I’ll be eighteen next month. So we’re practically the same age.”

Eddie nods. “But as far as driving, yeah. I don’t like, have my own car. So yeah, technically I could get a license but I don’t have anything to actually _drive_ yet.”

“My dad gave me his old car and basically let me destroy it while I was practicing,” says Richie. “Your parents don’t trust you with their cars?”

Eddie hesitates for a second before looking away. “It’s just me and my mom,” he says quickly.

“Oh,” says Richie stupidly, feeling like an absolute _tool._ “Oh yeah, sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Eddie tells him, and it sounds like he mostly means it. “I was so young when he died, I don’t even remember him. It’s just that my mom…”

“She sounds like a hardass,” says Richie, drumming on the Whack-a-Mole console while Eddie grabs the mallet.

“It’s not— _wham—_ that,” he says, eyes darting between the moles. “It’s like… My mom acts like she wishes she’d never even _—wham—_ given birth to me.”

“Ow,” Richie grimaces. “Harsh.”

“No,” Eddie corrects. “I don’t mean it like— _wham_ —that. Just that like I think she would rather they’d never— _wham_ —cut the umbilical cord. Like she wishes we were still— _wham wham wham_ —attached.”

“Yikes,” says Richie, because that’s all he can think of to say. 

“Big yikes,” Eddie agrees.

“I’m guessing you don’t go to Derry High, then,” says Richie, resting his head against the machine while Eddie continues to annihilate moles. “Makes sense that I never saw you around, cause I _totally_ would’ve remembered seeing that ass before.”  

He hesitates before adding, “I even wrote some graffiti in the bathroom stalls so you’d recognize my handwriting.”

Eddie’s nose crinkles adorably at that. “First of all—no. I’m homeschooled. Maybe because my mom doesn’t want me making too many friends, or maybe even just to keep me from using public bathrooms.” 

“How do you know Mike and Curly then?” Richie asks.

“Cur—Stanley? Shit,” Eddie says as he misses a mole. “Mike and Stan are homeschooled too. We go to the same testing center in Bangor. And—ha!—I dunno? I sensed their gayness?”

“Yeah I sensed their gayness too,” Richie says. “By the way they were all over each other.”

“No, actually. It wasn’t like that. I knew both of them before they knew each other,” says Eddie. “I was there when they met.”

“Wow.” Richie uses his fist to hit a mole he thinks Eddie’s about to miss. “soul mark surprise?”

“Not really,” says Eddie. “Stan had a thing on his wrist that said, _hi, I’m Mike_ , in Mike’s handwriting, so I kind of connected the dots and introduced them.”

“I’m the third wheel with Bev and Ben all the time,” Richie tells him, leaning over to collect tickets from the Whack-a-Mole.

“They’re not usually too—wait, what’s that?” Eddie asks, snatching something out of Richie’s back pocket. He unfolds the piece of paper.

“Oh, well, uh,” Richie says, thinking for the first time that it’s kind of embarrassing that he kept the list in the first place, “I just… Well, my soul mark said _oh my fucking god, I hate that song,_ so I kind of like kept a list of songs I thought he—they might be talking about.”

Eddie snorts. “I have every single one of these on my iPod,” he says. “And that’s like, my all-time favorite song.” He points at _I Knew I Loved You_ by Savage Garden. Oh _god._

“Do you really hate Weird Al?” Richie asks him on their way to the air hockey table. “Cause I gotta say, I don’t know if _this,”_ he gestures between them, “is gonna work out if you don’t want to hear the _Angry White Boy Polka_ at least three times a day.”

“No,” says Eddie quickly. “Weird Al is great. It’s just, you know, the soul mark thing. Like I got it and I was like, _what the fuck is this shit?_ And I guess it was kind of a relief when the song came out because I really hadn’t figured out like...what context I might hear that in. But then I just got sick of associating the song with like...true love. Cause it’s like, ridiculous and gross, you know?”

“I guess,” says Richie. “I dunno. I thought that was pretty fuckin’ romantic.”

“Yeah, I bet you did,” says Eddie. “That’s the kind of _romance_ I’d expect from anyone who hasn’t watched Bing Crosby serenade Grace Kelly.”

“Damn, Eddie. You’re a pretentious little dick, you know that?” Richie says, picking up the puck.

“And you’re a goddamn mess,” Eddie shoots back without pausing. “Your serve.”

Richie is already balls deep in love by the the game ends. To be fair, he’s not sure how he was supposed to concentrate on the game with Eddie giggling and doing a little dance every time he scored. Eddie may have kicked his ass, but Richie walks out the door of the arcade feeling like he’s the one who came out on top. 

“What’s next?” Eddie asks, backing out the door of the arcade, catching his new sticky hand toy on Richie’s glasses on purpose.

“Road head?” Richie asks hopefully, jutting his chin in the direction of his car and grabbing onto his glasses to keep them from being pulled right off his face.

“You wish,” Eddie rolls his eyes. “I haven’t even decided if I want a second date yet.”

“Ah ha!” Richie points at him. “So you admit this _is_ a first date?”

Eddie laughs and raises his eyebrows. “I dunno. Is it?”

“Let’s ask Johnny Rocket,” says Richie, cocking his head to the right. “Got time for a burger? We can split a milkshake.”

Eddie gives him a considering sort of look. “I could probably squeeze it into my schedule.”

 _Ohhhhhh the things Richie wants to squeeze…_ With great mental fortitude, he refrains from commenting. Instead Eddie opens the door for him and they grab two menus and a booth. 

“What are you gonna get?” Richie asks.

Eddie peers at him from over the menu. “Depends who’s paying. But we’re _definitely_ not sharing a milkshake. I can already tell you’re a dessert hog. I’d end up getting like _one_ sip.”

Richie laughs, running a hand through his hair. “God.”

“What?” asks Eddie, eyes already fixed back on the menu.

“Honestly? You.”

“Me what?”

Richie hesitates because it’s something he’s never talked to anyone about before. And for good reason—it’s fucking stupid. But right now, sitting in this Johnny Rockets…

“You know…” he starts, drumming his knuckles on the table, “I’m like, _super_ bisexual. But I knew my soulmate was going to be a guy.”

Eddie puts the menu down. “Huh. Really? How?”

Richie shakes his head. “I dunno. It sounds really stupid but like… I don’t know if it was a dream I had or… you just. Like when I heard your voice and then you turned around in the theater…”

It’s so corny. He can’t say it. He’s playing with the straw dispenser on the table like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. How do you say _you make me feel like, gooey inside and it’s fuckin’ nasty but also I don’t ever want it to end?_ Without sounding like a pussy, of course.

“Thanks? I guess?” says Eddie. “I mean, I still have no idea what you’re talking about but—”

“I’m really glad you’re my soulmate,” Richie blurts out. “Not just to have one, I mean. I’m glad it’s you. You’re awesome. Like...you’re totally knocking me off my fuckin’ feet here. And I hope you—”

The rest of his sentence is drowned out by Eddie leaning over the table and kissing him. Not like, full-on tongue kissing or anything. Just kind of a peck. But longer. Something in between. Soft, but definitely _real._

And afterwards Eddie draws back, a little pinker than he was a second ago and then digs into his pocket, fishing out some quarters. He puts two in the little jukebox at their table, punches in a number and letter combo, and then sits back in his seat, shredding a straw wrapper between his fingers.

 

_I thought love was only true in fairy tales_

_Meant for someone else, but not for me_

 

Eddie looks like he’s trying as hard as he can not to grin, going even redder. Richie leans in and offers his hand. Eddie drops his straw wrapper.

 

_Love was out to get me, that’s the way it seemed_

_Disappointment haunted all my dreams_

_But then I saw her face—_

 

“You know,” Richie says, looking Eddie in the eye, “I like the Smash Mouth version better.”

 

_Now I’m a believer_

 

Eddie laughs and takes his outstretched hand. “I think I can live with that.”

**Author's Note:**

> hullo!
> 
> i'm [yallreddieforthis](http://yallreddieforthis.tumblr.com) on tumblr!
> 
> [gidden](http://gidden.tumblr.com) is a saint for beta-ing my bullshit.


End file.
